Act I: The Beauty...

[Neftren]

Aeril peers curiously at the Warforged worker. He slowly slides his hand down to his sword, and takes the pair of gloves that the now deceased dockworker had left behind. "Goshawk eh? Hmm... fishy."

He heads off towards the Goshawk, hopefully to learn more.

[Glawackus]

"Wroth?!" Aundair exclaims, one foot raised to take another step back. He freezes as the vampire falls, and then stops.

On one hand, it's a golden opportunity to go find the family silver upstairs and go to town, he thinks, but if he was going to kill me, he wouldn't have sat here and had a drink and a little reading time. Besides, wouldn't be very honorable. Aundair smiles on the inside. Father wouldn't approve.

He squats next to the vampire. "There's no music, Villgate. We're the only ones here."

[kamikasei]

Pawn contemplates the d'Orien silently as she speaks. When he replies, his emotionless voice gives no more sign of his suspicion than it ever gives of any of his moods. "I will take you to the watch," he tells her. "They will be able to treat your injuries, and will need to be told what happened here. It is better than moving you all the way to your home."

Stooping, he moves to give her a shoulder's support or to carry her entirely, following her lead. "You do not remember how you came to be here? These men are not familiar to you?"

[darkzucchini]

Lorne

Lorne instinctively reaches for his blade as the woman rushes towards him, but is totally caught off guard as she grips him in a strong embrace. A look of utter surprise is evident on Lorne's face, but a rare smile slowly creeps across his ever stoic features.

“Arza! I have not seen you in an age. What have you been up to? What are you doing here in Sharn?” he assaults her with a barrage of questions. “I was off in the Demon Waste for about 20 years before I was sent here.”

Caught up in the excitement of reuniting with an old friend, one he had almost forgotten in the dust of years gone by, Lorne does not hear the sounds of battle that resound in the distance.

Spoiler

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Listen - (1d20+2)[4]

[The_Snark]

Saera

"Dm-hm-tu-dm," Saera hums along as she turns, "Dm-ruuuu-tu-duuuuuu…" The verse comes to an end, and she tries to peer at the singer; the shape of a mask—as if the wearer had just stepped from one of Skyway’s costume balls, still dressed as a lion or eagle or peacock or whatever the currents of Sharn’s tastes dictated was fashionable this month—is all she is able to make out before the figure vanishes.

"Thank you!" she cries to the singer in a quieter moment, as she glimpses her briefly atop a balcony a story up. "Thank you for a song upon a dreary day. What is your name?" she asks, turning again in a full circle as she looks for the singer. She ignores the puddle—a stream, actually; in Sharn water does not sit still—she has stopped in, although her shoes are soaked through and through.

[Miraqariftsky]

One heckuvva rainy day in the City of Towers...
Twenty-seven minutes to the Goshawk's departure for Stormreach...

Saera

The song ceases suddenly. The wind and the rain slow, each delicate droplet hanging in the air like a thousand upon a thousand tears from the heavens above.

The water in which Saera stands seethes then boils with sudden light. The white and black lines of the moon Rhaan shine in a circle ten feet around her. Flames lick at the edges of the aura and then the light of twelve moons lances down out of the heart of Siberys, the myriad hues playing across her form. The auras of light then seem to swirl and writhe, seeping into the flood beneath her feet as the stain of blood slowly taints the water and the mud with streams of scarlet-black.

From the water there rises the unmistakable silvern silhouette of the enigmatic singer. Her body and her silvern clothing merge into a seamless whole, the fluid material of her form taken from the very flood around them.

The face comes into focus. Locks the hue of midnight hang over her brow, eyes clear as the azure of winter gaze into Saera's soul. The porcelain mask of a crowned queen falls from a bleeding, flayed face, consumed by plague. The features beneath the storm of shadows, that lustrous mane are fairer than fairness itself, yet deathly pale.

Dry lips curve into a smile as etheral arms rise and envelop the former Phiarlan in a loving embrace. The silvern singer bends down and then kisses her forehead, drawing her in despite the now-sickly odour. Her lips at Saera's long ear, she says, "Hail and well met... daughter"

---------------


Aeril

The panorama that he sees of the City of Towers is one of spire upon spire shrouded in storm and shadow. Lightings dance in the Ring of Siberys and still the rain batters on.

The traveling tiefling fairly shoots skywards on the cargo lift currently free of freight. Four thick cords of magical force pull the wide disc of stone and steel upwards while the unnatural state of gravity in Sharn's Syranian manifest zone push it up all the more.

Aeril feels himself pushed into the disc by the sheer force of the hurtling lift and then suddenly everything slows. The slightest raindrop seems to hang in the air, suspended by some force unknown.

In an overwhelming instant of searing heat, the rain trapped in the area of the lift boils away in the air, turned into scalding steam in a single heartbeat. A burning odour assails the ranger's nostrils as a massive shadow engulfs his own. Heavy footfalls thump behind him and a deep voice growls, "Return the blade of Maryn to its rightful place, falseblood. You are no son of mine"

--------------

Pawn

She tries to stand and put her arm around Pawn's shoulders but the soldier's girth is too wide. Her arm of bleeding flesh drops to the arm of bloodstained mithral and there she leans, letting her gait match that of her saviour, or at least as much as she is able. In between grunts of pain, she tells him with a voice still brimful of the passion, if no longer of the innocence of youth, "H'-I-'m Tala, T-Tala d'Orien. All I know is that I was asleep one moment, dreaming. Then there was this terrible crack of thunder... I usually like sleeping through a storm and don't wake up until noon... but suddenly I found myself here in this wet, stinking place with these men attacking me... I was speaking stuff I couldn't understand and lightning coming from my fingers... I don't know!"

The wounded woman wobbles on her feet and suddenly stumbles on slick stone and falls into the warforged's steady arms with a sudden gasp as the crossbow quarrel falls out of her shoulder with a sickly squelch.. Speaking in a near-swoon she says as she, "They shot me and beat me, talked of rape and ransom... and then you came along. Thank you, good sir...?"

------------

Trotherby/Aundair

Wroth hisses through clenched teeth, still clutching at his temples, still muttering harshly against some ineffable agony. Spasming hands grope through his breast pockets but all he comes up with are empty flasks.

His chest heaves with strain and his heavy breathing mists the air. "Mind... mind dropping... me a drink on dwarf's honour? Brandy, please, the utter worst gutrotting brew ye've got..."

"GYAAAR!" Villgate snarls and slams a fist against the stone wall. When that pain fails to distract him from the torment of the "song", he butts his head backwards and cracks it against the said wall with an audible crunch.

For a long while he lies motionless, blood dribbling from his mouth. And then he moans in pain, stirring once more. Huffing, he says, "Song's gone for now, but some liquor'd be plenty appreciated... old friend Morrs"

Spitting bloodstained saliva, he drawls, his olden eloquence gone but he still retains a vestige of his former dignity. "HAH! That I am reduced to begging help from you, my enemy worse than the Church... bah. You... I heard yer taking a job to help some dreamer. Don't trust the dreamers... they're worse than... than what is left of my kind. All we want is to give those who are worthy an escape from Dolurrh... but they... they... GAH! Dream, nightmare, sleeping, waking... they want to merge everything... I don't understand... I don't want to understand..."

----------------------

Lorne

Smiling a freckled, dimpled smile beneath her helm, Arza replies in the excited voice of a long-lost friend, also oblivious to the rising tumult behind them. "Ahh, well, too bad I wasn't able to ride the tides of trouble with you. Your duties with the Church pulled you away and I was drafted soon thereafter. Was on a transport up the Grithic river, bound for the Aundairian front but a bunch of freebooters came by night, scuppered us. I was among those whom they fished outta the water and put to work on the oars. Eventually met the Brelish Navy off the Thunder Sea and I led the slaves in revolt. They took me in and but I didn't want to work anywhere near ships anymore so here I've been, sergeant of the Sharn Watch for ten years"

Her eyes widen and her voice rises in astonishment as Lorne tells her he'd been posted at a Demon Wastes outpost for two decades. "Believe it or not, the pirates who captured me always stayed clear of the Shores of Sorrow, or so they called the nor'-wes' coasts of the Wastes. Was there really... um, evil stuff up there?"

---------------------

[Glawackus]

Aundair stands at the first mention of liquor and starts rummaging through cabinets, papers flying everywhere. Finally, he finds a bottle and turns back to Wroth. "Shut up, Villgate. You're even sicker than you usually are. And how'd you know I was going on the University's latest leap into the Lost Continent? And what's this song? Some kinda mind-weapon these...'dreamers' are using on you?" He scowls and looks out the window, and then turns back to await the vampire's answer.

[darkzucchini]

Lorne

"A sergeant? Congratulation!" Lorne gives Arza a hearty pat on the back, "I knew you would do well for yourself, always were a good shot and a great soldier back in Flame Keep."

Lorne's features grow sullen. "Great evil still walks freely within the Demon Wastes and I am afraid that the Flames excursion into those blighted lands brought little light to such a dark place. Men are not meant to live in such a lightless lands, the demon shadows seep into one's soul and corrupt the mind. I am sorry that I could not do more to spread the light of the Flame throughout those troubled lands, but it would be a lie to say that I am saddened to have left that cursed land. However, the duty of Knight-Guardian is never done, and I set sail for Stormreach to bring the light of the Flame to the dark continent of Xen'drik. My airship leaves within the hour, so I am afraid that our reunion must soon come to an end. However, I would truly be grateful if you could point me in the direction of Airship Docking Towers. I have not grown accustom to the layout of this city of yours."

[kamikasei]

Pawn stoops and picks up the injured woman, one arm under her shoulders and the other under her knees. "I am called Pawn," he tells her.

"It sounds like we were both under some spell. I was shown false visions of the fight. You are fortunate. I might have killed you thinking you an enemy." He is silent for a little while, and it doesn't seem to occur to him that his comment might disturb her. "Are you a mage?" he asks. "Have you ever - shot lightning from your fingers - before?"

[Miraqariftsky]

One heckuvva rainy day in the City of Towers...
Twenty minutes to the Goshawk's departure for Stormreach...

((Shoulda wrote "twenty-three" last time))

Pawn

Tala's head rocks on Pawn's arm and she moans lightly through as they move through the silent streets. "Nnnnnggghhh" is her only response as she drifts off into unconsciousness.

As the warforged marches along, something strange and subtle begins to happen. The rain slows and stills... every single drop hanging in midair and yet their surroundings speed past in a grey blur.

When time resumes its normal pace, they seem to have entered an area of the city that is shrouded in thick greenish-grey mist... somewhat similar to that at the onset of the Mourning. The clamour and clangour of battle in pervades the thick air, unending screams of agony and triumph failing to wake the still-sleeping Tala... Up ahead, there looms a silvern light, blazing out of the sinister shadows of the creeping, choking mist...

--------------

Lorne

Suddenly, the air turns greenish-grey and the rain comes sluggish but frigid. The tumult of strife, the cries of warriors--- of both victorious and vanquished reach to Siberys unseeing. Their voices are raised in many different tongues, but still their tones convey the music of the soldier's bloody art, the murderer's sweet sin and the lament of the dying.

"Cap'n! Danger on deck!" The taller human guard turns and half-draws his blade when out of nowhere, a phantom horseman, a knight in Karrnish armour of a style gone a thousand years ago rides out of the mist. The horse's heavy hooves make no splashes in the flood, no clops against the cobblestones yet the charger comes on, seeming to float through the air. There is nothing graceful, though, about how the vicious lance rips through his chest, how he feebly clutches the seemingly insubstantial haft. The knight rears and rips his weapon free, almost cutting the man in half as he rides over him, the heavy hooves of the phantom horse crunching his ruined chest asmithers.

A hail of bolts streaks out of the mist, striking the knight in the back, felling both him and his steed. They rear once more and topple with a great crash and then fade from view, dissolving into nothingness. "He was human, you insufferable zealot!" Comes a commander's voice from beyond the mists.

A horde of goblins runs at Lorne and the two remaining guards. They bear the features of women and children, the elderly and the infirm. All their greenish, misty eyes are wide with immortal fear as they flee the onrushing might of Sarlonian Karn. The ogre guardsman suddenly swoons after retching violently, overcome by the stench of the slain.

Bands of bugbears clad in blackened armour throw themselves in berserk rage at human halberdiers. A few hobgoblins and goblins remain, lashing out with chains and maces but still the Conqueror's forces march on, hewing them down and trampling the disintegrating ectoplasm underfoot.

A goblin mother stumbles near Lorne's stand, spilling her precious babe. The blade of a bearded human soldier rises in preparation for a strike and then a cry erupts from Arza's heart, "Marguul! Sharaata kuun draal, kech nor teth!" She lashes out with her shield and strikes true with her sword in a stab that would fell any man but the ghost merely re-forms, unfazed by mundane steel.

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Trotherby/Aundair

"Hah" Villgate spits as he snatches the bottle from Aundair's hand. "Fool. Why do I breathe, you blind fool?!"

KRRSSSH!

In a sudden flurry of motion, he smashes the bottle against a wall, ending up with holding naught but a piece of thick, liquor-stained shard of glass. He points the tip at the dwarf's eye and propounds, hissing in obvious pain, "Why did I wait for you in civil manner? Why didn't I send my minions? Why didn't I just bite you from the outset to bloody well be blasted rid of you?!"

Light flashes in the professor's room. Blood spatters the wall from a spewing wound... then two... and three... His lifeblood gurgling out from gaping gashes in wrists and throat, Wroth finally smiles in peace and sighing says, "Silence"

With that he sways for a moment, his coat and the surrounding furniture drenched in blood and then he topples, thudding into the floor with a sickly sound. There he lies, slowly bleeding, a body bereft of life, love and liberty... a body bereft of breath and motion, of soul and action.

Thus dies the man Wroth Villgate, for the second time in over three hundred years...

------------

Travis

The journey to collect his belongings is uneventful... but as the skycoach passes over a certain stretch of Sharn, the storm slows. No more, the wind blows. Droplets hang in the air like a curtain of tiny shards.

Suddenly, the sounds of strife ring to the skies. A cavalcade of greenish ghosts surge out of nowhere, goblinoids and humans of an earlier age locked in immortal deadly struggle...

[kamikasei]

Pawn stands stock still in the mist, a terrible and unfamiliar weariness seeming to bind his limbs. We cannot go back.

He lays Tala down and attempts to rouse her. He does his best to be gentle, but it is a long time since he tended to wounded, and he is less sensitive to human expressions than he had been. "Tala."

Spoiler

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Tala can't be woken, it seems, so the rest of this post doesn't apply.

"I do not trust my senses. You must tell me what you see. Keep me from doing wrong." There is a taste in his mouth, the unaccustomed taste of blood. "If we are attacked I must fight. But I would not attack first, from delusion."

It seems a horrendous effort to stand. Wearily, the feeling clear though strange to see in a warforged, Pawn draws his blade again, and slides his shield down onto his left hand still caked in blood. "Stay as close as you can."

He walks towards the light.

((The above is assuming Pawn can wake Tala. If not, I'll post a revised version.

Oh yeah - and AC22, HP34, in case an actual fight breaks out.))

[Glawackus]

Trotherby goes for his whip at the crash of the bottle, but his fear is too great, and he loses his grip--it cracks once in his hand and then flies into a corner.

He flinches away at the first motion of the vampire, positive that his life is doomed to end here--not among the dangerous, romantic life of Aundair Morrs (Obtainer of Rare Antiquities, Unlimited), but the boring, bookish one of Trotherby d'Kundarak.

When it's apparent that he's still alive, he lowers his hands and looks at the carnage.

"By the Five ever-lovin' Nations," he curses, awed and more than a little terrified. The rain pounds against the window, and Aundair is shaken back to his senses. The airship!

He runs for the door, and then hesitates. The dwarf drops the (short) distance to the floor, and pounds on the floorboards, hoping to contact his colleague in the downstairs apartment. "Wranix! So help me, Wranix, you best be down there, or you'll never see another notebook of mine for the rest of your life!"

[Djinn_in_Tonic]

One heckuvva rainy day in the City of Towers...
Twenty minutes to the Goshawk's departure for Stormreach...

Eyes wide, the young reporter stares in awe at the ghostly carnage hovering in the air before him, never breaking his gaze even as his camera comes up and begins flickering away.

Come on...

He pulls the crystal out of the camera and glances down, before throwing the fragile sheet against the wall. Rose-colored crystal explodes within the skycoach as Travis thumps his hand down on the seat and tries hard to bite back his irritation...for the image showed nothing but the Sharn skyline.

[Neftren]

In a single movement, Aeril moved forward, swung around and drew the blade in the process. Then who am I really?"

[darkzucchini]

Lorne

Lorne fumbles for the sword at his side as the phantom knight charges out of the mists, pulling the blade free from its sheath turning to meet his enemy in battle before it is shot down the unseen crossbow snipers. Whirling about to confront his other foes and unslings his silver kite shield from where it hangs across his shoulders, he puts his back up to Arza's so that they may better protect each other. "What in the Name of all that is Holy is going on here?" he shouts to her over the din of battle.

Lorne lifts his shield to guard the mother goblin and her fallen babe, but, hearing Arza's cry, he turns to confront the wraith as it raises its sword above its head. Thrusting his shield forward so that all may see symbol of the Silver Flame emblazoned up it. His white cloak billowing behind him, Lorne steps towards the attacker and calls upon the Silver Flame to drive away the foul apparitions, "By the Light of the Silver Flame, the Holy Fire that drives all that is dark from its sight, I cast you away, back to the realm of shadows from whence you came!" A pale, white light slowly begins to emanate from the sign of the Silver Flame, growing to illuminate walkway upon which they stand and fading away as it travels out in the void of the Sharn sky.

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Not sure if these are undead or not, but I figure I'll give Turn Undead a try.
Turning Check - (1d20+2)[20]
Turning Damage - (2d6+4)[11]

11 hit die of undead are turned, with 5 hit die being the max of a single creature that I can turn.

[kamikasei]

Tala is unresponsive to his attempts to rouse her. Pawn remains still, crouched in the mist, considering.

The battle may be an illusion. Or it may be a mask for a real threat. Or it may be real itself. He looks down at the human. She needs healing. I should not bring her in to a fight. But there may be no fight. If I take her away from here, she might die before we find help.

He can still hear the battle ahead, but cannot tell if it is moving, towards him or away. The phantom taste of his own - illusory? - blood is still in his mouth. I must go forward, he decides at last. She needs aid.

Still crouched over the prone woman, Pawn draws his sword and lays it beside her, then readies his shield. Holding the shield loosely he ducks and lifts her up across his shoulders in a fireman's carry before securing his grip, his shield-arm bound up in keeping her secure but still providing some protection. He satisfies himself that she will not be too badly shaken about, then stoops again and takes up his sword. She feels horribly vulnerable across his back, but it is the best defence he can afford her.

Perhaps there is no battle, he tells himself. Perhaps I will find her healing just a little way away. Healing, and someone to tell me what is happening.

Sword held ready, he walks towards the light.

[Miraqariftsky]

One heckuvva rainy day in the City of Towers...
Thirteen minutes to the Goshawk's departure for Stormreach...

Pawn

The warforged hero ploughs through the ranks of wraiths, his great bulk easily and harmlessly passing through their ethereal forms as the battle rages on, the restless warriors still fighting their eternal strife heedless. Pawn's precious burden moans slightly as her head thunks repeatedly against her saviour's mithral-plated back.

He and Tala after several minutes finally come close to the silvern light in the sickly green mist... Even then, it seems still so close yet so far away. Though such is the feeling of dread, the figures in the distance now seem to have taken focus and resemble a man and a woman, both armoured and fighting back to back against a throng... or rather, a horde...

Aahyi-kladakladakla-yhi-ksiksiksi-yaahi-aahyi...

A sibilant song of notes serene yet utterly discordant rips through the air. Suddenly, the battle ceases as every combatant takes on sudden solidity. Their forms forsake ghostly ether and blood spurts from a hundred mortal wounds, voices raised in victory suddenly choke on newfound breath. Swords and spears rattle against the ground as their wielders struggle with their sudden weight...

Silence fills the street as the warriors turn of one accord and fix their maddened eyes upon them. Countless weapons shiver in the night's cold wind, gripped by hands no longer used to the weight. A moment passes and blades are raised and readied, the hands no longer strangers to hilts and hafts...

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Roll for initiative, please.

Horde (yuck. don't want to roll for a hundred warriors...)
(1d20)[7]

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Lorne

"How in Khyber am I to know?! I met me fair share o' **** but never stuff like this!" Arza yells back as she slashes ineffectually at yet another ghostly assailant. "You're the paladin, you tell me!"

Lorne's invocation of divine might rings through the streets. His shield serves as a channel, his body a conduit, his soul a stream for the Silver Flame's power. Fire flashes forth, washes over the nearest of the phantoms consuming him in an instant. Those close enough wither, the threads of their very being unraveling and shriveling like dry grass before a scorching desert wind. Others flee the fury of the Flame, their unhallowed essences unable to bear its purity.

In the distance, though, there is a massive vague shape that comes closer and closer, unperturbed by the hallowed flames. Its shoulder is misshapen, its footfalls thundering, a long blade glittering in its hand, blood dripping from the keen edge...

Suddenly, a song that he had heard just that morning rips through the dead-dark air. Aahyi-kladakladakla-yhi-ksiksiksi-yaahi-aahyi...

A sibilant song of notes serene yet utterly discordant rips through the air. Suddenly, the battle ceases as every combatant takes on sudden solidity. Their forms forsake ghostly ether and blood spurts from a hundred mortal wounds, voices raised in victory suddenly choke on newfound breath. Swords and spears rattle against the ground as their wielders struggle with their sudden weight...

Still Lorne's flames lash out but find no purchase upon foes now of flesh and blood, no longer of nether shade. Another armoured horseman charges out of the mist.

Lightning flashes in the sky. The foe's eyes are impossibly wide with the ineffable taint of madness and between bouts of uncontrollable laughter he takes up the sinister chant, that discordant song.

Thunder strikes and a great gout of lightning flashes from Siberys' tail to her snout. GRRRAABOOOUUUMMMM! The horseman's charge comes right at the paladin, a notched longsword slashing out as he nears. The blade descends and the horse rears, hooves flailing at Lorne's head.

Spoiler

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Roll initiative, please.

(1d20+1)[14] initiative
(1d20+1)[7] attack roll
(1d20+1)[3] crit threat
(1d8+1)[6] damage
(1d20+1)[5] Ride check
((If the horse bucks him, feel free to take that into your post))

Yeah, I'm lazy about cooking up different roll-mods. Bite me.

-----------

Travis

Aahyi-kladakladakla-yhi-ksiksiksi-yaahi-aahyi... The song of madness cuts through the serenity of the storm with the sudden brutality of a butcher's knife through putrefying meat, with the agony of rusty iron hooks being dragged through one's exposed brain.

No more is the mob in melee below of hues green and grey. They are of flesh and blood but their minds are warped and twisted, seeking naught but suffering and pain and death for all who now oppose them.

thak-thak-thak! fft-fft-fft-fft-fft-fft...!

A hail of bolts screams upward. Some of them sink into the wood of the skycoach while the rest fly off into the blackness of the sky. One of them lodges in the belly of the coachman and he gasps, his innards spilling into the hull.

whoooosh...

The skycoach plummets...

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Ya still got a long way to go, though.

Reflex check, please. Failing a 13 would lose ya one HP.
Manning the tiller? I dunno... untrained Profession (boatman), maybe? Methinks it'd work, given the Syranian manifest zone...

-------------

Aeril

Twin blades of bone slide out of the daemon's forearms. Blood drips down onto the disk of the lift, making the surface slick yet the foul beast shows no sign of pain. The blades slide into his hands and without further ado spins into a storm of strikes.

The great voice thunders, "Give me the blood of the innocent, the flesh of Eberron itself lest your soul I take as collateral. Return that which is not thine, falseblood!"

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Sorry if these may not exactly follow TWF rules...

Initiative: (1d20+3)[21]

(1d20+9)[24]
(1d20+9)[22]
(1d8+6)[12]

(1d20+9)[29]
(1d20+9)[18]
(1d8+6)[14]

(1d20+9)[17]
(1d20+9)[24]
(1d8+6)[11]

Attack roll, crit check, damage, respectively...

Anyhow...
Your pop's AC is 18. Crack away, ol' chap. Also, if every time you get struck, please roll for a Fort save.

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Trotherby/Aundair

tok-ka-tok!

A cane's butt thumps hard on the trapdoor between their two apartments. It opens and Wranix peers out, his beady little eyes squinting sleepily. Seeing his old friend, he sputters, "What?! Aren't you supposed to be in Morgrave or Xen'drik by now?!"

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Sorry. I forgot his speech colour. Also, sorry if I misrepresented Wranix here...

[Glawackus]

Spoiler

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That's perfectly fine. Being that I didn't pick a color for him, go crazy.

"Villgate just decided to off himself in front of me," Aundair hisses through clenched teeth, "and I've got to be at the airship dock as soon as possible. What do we do with the body?!"

[kamikasei]

Spoiler

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Initiative - (1d20+7)[15] - rest to follow...

[Djinn_in_Tonic]

One heckuvva rainy day in the City of Towers...
Thirteen minutes to the Goshawk's departure for Stormreach...

Travis tosses his camera into his rucksack and leaps up, running nimbly forward across the damaged floor of the skycoach. The controls are almost within his grasp when the vehicle catches on a lamppost and jolts violently, sending the young reporter sprawling on the bloody floor. He reaches up to steady himself, only to fumble at the steering array, causing the skycoach to lurch violently and begin a hasty downward plummet.

"Jal'gor it!"

The curse hisses out of D'Amerila's lips as he struggles upwards once more, blood flowing freely upon him as he uses the driver's body for support.

Spoiler

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Balance: (1d20+4)[9]
Reflex: (1d20+6)[26]
Profession (Pilot): (1d20+3)[7]

...Wow. Two failures (on the things that matter) and a natural 20...to avoid 1 point of damage.

[Miraqariftsky]

One heckuvva rainy day in the City of Towers...
Twelve minutes to the Goshawk's departure for Stormreach...

Trotherby/Aundair

Wranix' eyes widen in surprise then his brows come together in confusion. Waving his little inkstained hands about as he stands on the rungs of the diminutive stepladder between their two apartments, the gnome drawls, "You drunk or something? I definitely smell Mror whisky about and you sounded like you were partying a bit too hard up here... And what's this about Villgate killing himself and us having to hide the body? If... IF he did kill himself, and this is a bad joke, young dwarf, then wouldn't all that'd be left just a pile of carpet-sweepings?"

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Aeril

The Black Lotus comes up in desperate defense as Aeril backsteps under his daemonic forebear's assault. The slender, slightly curved blade slashes upward then comes down and around, forming a veil of steel around the ranger.

Moving with surprising swiftness and dodging the expert blows as if they were a mere child's flailing, the daemon stabs beneath Aeril's guard. One blade of jagged bone plunges right through the younger fighter's breast, piercing a lung and running him through. The daemon grins and twists the blade then wrenches it out then almost as an afterthought flourishes with his other blade and flays the flesh off the left side of his face with a backhanded blow.

Towering over him, the daemon then spits a glob of fire right at Aeril's mortal wound, searing it shut, his lung knitting back together in a horrendous flare of unhallowed healing. The daemon then joins the two shards of bone by their makeshift pommels and they merge seamlessly together, forming a larger sword, a wicked ivory parody of the Black Lotus, except thrice as large. "Come again and pass, if you will. Learn, then, falseblood. Learn the path of pain that ever you will tread and glory in the blood that you will shed. I am Nyram Kaldroth, Lord of Shevarath. You have yet to earn the right to be called a son of Maryn"

[Miraqariftsky]

Aeril

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Heh. Got carried away with the story. Forgot the rolls.

(3d8)[15] Whoo, healing... Holy blazes! It's a reference to the Fiery Shpit!

----------

One heckuvva rainy day in the City of Towers...
Eleven minutes to the Goshawk's departure for Stormreach...

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My minutes are too fast? Meh. This thing travels at the plotspeed, yo.

Travis

The skycoach now plummets, its trajectory nearly vertical. The towers speed by and the vessel cuts through the frozen rain and the trailing wisps of greenish-grey mist that have risen that far.

Travis is literally pushed against the bottom of the hull, his back against a few flimsy planks of soarwood, a precipitous drop below him and before him. The driver's body is jerked out of its spot by the sudden jerk and falls tumbling into oblivion.

Yet still the battle rages on below...

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Sigh. All DCs increased by 5.

[Djinn_in_Tonic]

One heckuvva rainy day in the City of Towers...
Eleven minutes to the Goshawk's departure for Stormreach...

The falling skycoach strikes a glancing blow on a tower's outcropping, shattering the fragile skywood and scattering much of the interior to the four winds. Travis tumbles out, barely managing to grasp the splintered edge of the floorboards. A quick glance downward reveals the city below him as a spinning blur, and D'Amerila averts his eyes to avoid sudden nausea. Precious seconds are wasted searching for a better grip until fear and adrenaline kick in, and the Travis D'Amerila levers himself back into the falling vehicle.

Bracing himself between the remains of the chair and the punctured wall, D'Amerila seizes the controls with a skill born of desperation, hoping against hope that his intuition is correct...

Spoiler

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Balance: 6
Reflex: 20
Profession (Pilot) 19 + 6 (Action Point)

[kamikasei]

Despite the weight of Tala across his back and the strange sluggishness of his limbs, Pawn is almost relieved at his situation. His purpose is clear. There are no choices to be made except the chess-shuffle of battle and objectives. He has wounded. Enemies about. Tala must be brought to safety, or defended.

He does not know of what the wraiths and ghouls around him are made, and it does not matter. The lighted figures before him may be an illusion, but he has no outher course. Before the newly-solid horde can take action, he moves. He tightens his grip on Tala to secure her, raises his shield before them, and runs.

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Double move towards the two figures. If there's a clear path, great. If not, Pawn will either charge a good target (choosing one that will take him the furthest distance), or attempt to overrun an enemy (charging for preference as it allows more movement).

Attack - (1d20+10)[13](23)
Damage - (1d8+3)[6](9)
Bonus - (1d8-2)[6](4) (from Powerful Charge)
Confirm - (1d20+10)[15](25)
Critical - (1d8+3)[7](10)

Overrun - (1d20+2)[2](4)

If charging, Pawn takes a -2 to AC, which is 20/ff17/t11. 34hp.

Have those penalties worn off? If so it's 46hp and all of those rolls should be bumped up by two.

[Neftren]

[U]

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Aeril

The Black Lotus comes up in desperate defense as Aeril backsteps under his daemonic forebear's assault. The slender, slightly curved blade slashes upward then comes down and around, forming a veil of steel around the ranger.

Moving with surprising swiftness and dodging the expert blows as if they were a mere child's flailing, the daemon stabs beneath Aeril's guard. One blade of jagged bone plunges right through the younger fighter's breast, piercing a lung and running him through. The daemon grins and twists the blade then wrenches it out then almost as an afterthought flourishes with his other blade and flays the flesh off the left side of his face with a backhanded blow.

Towering over him, the daemon then spits a glob of fire right at Aeril's mortal wound, searing it shut, his lung knitting back together in a horrendous flare of unhallowed healing. The daemon then joins the two shards of bone by their makeshift pommels and they merge seamlessly together, forming a larger sword, a wicked ivory parody of the Black Lotus, except thrice as large. "Come again and pass, if you will. Learn, then, falseblood. Learn the path of pain that ever you will tread and glory in the blood that you will shed. I am Nyram Kaldroth, Lord of Shevarath. You have yet to earn the right to be called a son of Maryn"

Screaming in agony as his face is cut open and his entire body is killed and repaired in an instant, Aeril cries out, "Perhaps I shall prove my birthright on the adventure I am henceforth heading to. Unless of course, you decide to kill me. But, as you wish." Aeril brings the sword back into guard position as he launches into a whirling offensive. Sidestepping around Nyram with an elegant twirl, Aeril lashes out as he slides towards the opposite end of the skylift.

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(1d20+15)[28] for the Tumble Check to avoid an AoO... oh wait Spring Attack. Whatever. Either way, I pass unless I roll a natural one here. So good for me. Now I will spring attack and attack him as I pass by him.

(1d20+11)[16] to Hit.
(1d10+1)[5] Points of Damage - Slashing.

[Glawackus]

"I am not drunk! He--" Aundair grabs the gnome by the arm--"is right"--he drags him into the sitting room--"here!"

[darkzucchini]

Lorne

Lorne steps forward to meet the mad horseman's charge, raising his shield to meet his opponent's blade and thrusting upward with his own. Turning his head, he commands Arza and her ogre underling to get the hell out of here, "I'll hold them here on the bridge long enough for the two of you get under some cover! Don't worry about me, I'll be right behind you!"

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Initiative - (1d20+1)[9]
Attack - (1d20+9)[15]
Threat - (1d20+9)[10]
Damage - (1d8+3)[4]

[The_Snark]

Saera

She stares into silvery eyes, lips parting first in wonder, and then to exclaim, "Mother!" She returns the embrace—carefully, so that her mother does not burst into the water she stepped from from the force of it. With her hair, clothes and skin long since drenched by the rain, she can’t tell whether her mother is cold flesh, water, or made from wispy grey Dolurrh. No other could say—they are alone.

Yet she does not feel alone. The rain patters around them like Sharn’s heartbeat, a hundred thousand little patters tapping out a single, steady beat. Her dreams slumber in the back of her head as they always did, only waiting for her to go to sleep to come to her once more. And, of course, her mother. Siania, once of Shol of Phiarlan, the only one whose name Saera truly shared. She had not seen her mother for a long time. Not even in dreams, although she had often wished for that. Now she has been given a second chance to see her mother and hear her voice—her voice as it was before sickness took her! And she saw her mother all at once: as she had been with her body being eaten away by illness, as she had been living in a cramped hovel in Sharn’s underbelly alone, and as she had been before her family took her name and her life—and Saera’s too, for she had followed her mother. Saera had loved and cared for the first two mothers, but it was the last one she remembered from her earliest days, and had longed to see again when she descended to the slums.

Now she did.

[Miraqariftsky]

One heckuvva rainy day in the City of Towers...
Nine minutes to the Goshawk's departure for Stormreach...

Trotherby/Aundair

Wranix pops out of the hole in the floor and slips free of Aundair's grip then sails through the air and thuds with a sickly plop in one of the couches soaked by Villgate's blood. The gnome rolls off and lands in a puddle of still-warm blood. His eyes are white with fear and wonderment, his mouth champing in unspeakable horror.

Stumbling through the gore, with a squinched, determined demeanour, he masters his hyperventilation and uses his cane as he wades through the flood. Belabouring his dwarven friend with both words and blows, he hisses at him, "Get on! Out of here! Don't worry about me, I'll clean up. Just send me your notes. Go. GO!"

---------

Lorne

The paladin's shield-arm shudders under the twin impacts of the horse's hooves, then, straining with his feet, he heaves forward and the beast topples, bringing its rider down with it. Lorne's sword flashes out in that moment, catching the falling rider across the throat, ending his misery swiftly.

Beneath him and around, the flare of hallowed light dies down, leaving naught but a desperate strife fought under cold fire. At his legs, the last of the ashes of the goblin mother wither away, mingling with those of her attacker. The babe looks on with eyes weeping fluid fire right before it too is consumed.

Behind him, he hears Arza hew down her man, the sound of a mortal scream, the sound of a sharp blade shearing through steel and flesh and bone. Arterial blood, hot from the heart, splashes across his lower back. She yells back to him, "Grog's gone, but by the Flame we'll still make a stand of this! Can't do nothing against ghosts but flesh is flesh and what bleeds can die!"

From his sides, however, two more assailants rush in. The halberdier sweeps his weapon low, attempting to trip the stalwart defender but gets his own feet tangled in the haft's swing and falls flat on his face, the blood-and-ash stained flood splashing high. The axeman, however, grins savagely, his scar-mapped face contorting as heavy blades descend from practiced hands. and cut deep into the paladin's thigh, brute strength punching through the enchanted plate.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a warforged with an injured woman over one shoulder blasts through a blockade of foes, scattering them like ninepins and comes to a halt as his blade sinks into the back of the clumsy halberdier.
----------------

Pawn

Blades bristle out from the faceless, mad-eyed throng. Pawn charges, a feeling of invincibility flooding through his circuits as he plunges headlong against the closest of the warriors. Though his shield is tall and his spear is long, his courage is craven and he stumbles back, away from the rampaging juggernaut of stone and steel.

Pawn's charge carries him onwards, onto a next layer of foemen, but they are unprepared and their legs give way, their spines twist away, their arms fall back and they scatter like ninepins. Still onwards he charges, liveroot-and-mithral legs still churning the tainted flood, only stopping when he reaches the light and his blade sinks into soft flesh and a weapon falls from spasming hands.

There now he stands, his sword stuck in the back of a squirming halberdier. Before him is a familiar scarred face, one that he had seen earlier this morning. At his back is a woman clad in the livery of the Watch, flicking blood from her drenched blade and looking about fiercely for the next assailant.

On his shoulder, Tala has yet to move or stir ever since she lost consciousness. Blood flows freely from the hole in her shoulder.

-------------

Travis

Parapets and railings pass by in a dizzying blur. Lightnings crash with frightening ferocity as Siberys' belly rumbles, demanding to be fed.

The ground, bristling with wicked blades rushes up to meet the half-elf. At the last possible moment, he manages to finally stir the tiller and push it high up.

The skycoach stops so suddenly, so violently that he is jarred from his mooring and for a moment, hangs on thin air. He feels something sharp slash through the air right beneath his dangling feet and looking below, he sees three figures making a stand against the horde, one more making her way across rooftops toward them, a shining arrow nocked on a great bow...

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Fort save at 13 to avoid throwing up, please.
Reflex save at 15 to hang on to the skycoach.
Just in case he does fall...
(2d6)[8]

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Aeril

The two blades clash in a flurry of sparks and grist as the daemon whirls to meet the smaller warrior's bold attack. Aeril's muscles ache from the sudden strain and his back feels like it is holding back the strength of a rampaging bull.

The daemon leaps back and lands nimbly, planting both feet wide. The fifteen-foot blade rises high, the hilt held by only one hand, the other black-nailed hand held out, fingers crooked in invitation.

[Djinn_in_Tonic]

One heckuvva rainy day in the City of Towers...
Nine minutes to the Goshawk's departure for Stormreach...

Travis grits his teeth and tightens his grip on the controls, swinging his legs until they once more rest securely on the fragile floor. He pauses for a second to strap himself into the restraining harness, then quickly returns his attention to the flight controls.

The skycoach swerves at his command, dropping low to zoom over the assembled masses, sending the would-be assailants scattering and bowling over those to slow to leap out of the way. The prow of the coach splinters slightly at the high-speed collisions, but it holds strong, the wood far stronger than those it strikes.

Travis pulls up on the wheel, bringing the vehicle to a hovering stop directly above the few valiant fighters. His fist slams the quick release button of his harness and he runs to the back of the coach, fumbling for the release of the emergency boarding ladder. Seconds later the rope device tumbles downward, and D'Amerila cups his hands around his mouth.

"Let's go! In the coach!"

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Fortitude: (1d20+3)[13]
Reflex: (1d20+6)[15]

EDIT: Heh...talk about luck!